Parisian Opera
by Miles Edgeworth
Summary: Chapter 3 is up. An adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Lereux. Kori Anders is a young soprano who has been visited by the Angel of Music. Is it truly an angel, or is it the mysterious Phantom who haunts her every waking moment?
1. Auction House

_**Parisian Opera**_

_By Iain R. Lewis_

_An adaptation of Gaston Lereux's novel Le Fantome de l'Opera. It will borrow bits and pieces from several materials of the original novel, for example, it may utilize "Music of the Night" and the flow of events of the musical, but, dammit, we're going to use Angeles Pur for the big finale._

_Teen Titans belong to the DC company thing. Use it. Love it._

_Introduction: Auction House_

I come to you with a strange story.

I'm not exactly sure where to begin. You see, there are many points I could address. Persia, for example, and their strange customs, but perhaps that would be too far into the story. I could tell you about a violinist and his strange little daughter. Or I could just start where everything appeared to go amiss.

I trust that you've been following the news at the turn of the century; you seem to be a very erudite kind. I like that! The way your eyes are a-glisten; I think you might be interested to know more about a series of events that occurred somewhere within ten to twenty years before this very day.

You're interested, I see. Then you've heard about the unfortunate accident of the chandelier, and of course the strange affair of Miss Kori Anders. Such a strange tale; and one not befitting a girl of her beauty.

But she's not where we focus our attention. Instead, I have this clipping for you to read. Perhaps we'll go take a look. Get your hat and cane, and be prepared, for while the English have their Victorian well-to-do, the French must follow suit if only to show them how we do it – that is to say, we do it right.

Come along, down the streets, it's so very soon. I can hear the bells ringing out the hour. But it's across the street and down the way to the Opera Populaire. But it's not so 'populaire' anymore. So let's come in closer and take a look.

The auctions have been running for the past morning and we're perhaps a bit late, but take a seat and perhaps place a bid. The stakes are high but to a collector with an eye such as yours, perhaps you can spot something for your troubles.

Like a Paper-Mache monkey playing cymbals on a music box that haunts with its simple, but ever lovely tune. _Masquerade… hide your face…_

Echoes of the past reverberate in this old dilapidated building, and it becomes obvious to you and I that the years of the glamorous and splendorous galas are long since passed. The seasons tickets are barren now, as the world is becoming enamored with new inventions. Moving pictures! What poppy-cock, and yet they go in droves. So fickle, modern audiences!

I tell you, nothing beats the seats we have now. Not too close, yet not too far. The stage is open up to our view and the actors and actresses who would have strut their vocal chords upon the stage in ridiculous attire would certainly give us a show because their every fiber is reaching for that age old reporte. But now, now the halls are empty, and where once stood a grand chandelier there lies only the vaguest signs of new electrical lighting. Nothing quite so grand as candle-light, but an elegant replacement.

But I digress.

Now we are here.

And now you want to hear the story. I did some journalistic endeavors in my youth. I was here many a time critiquing performances, but more importantly printing scandals. Scandals ran those Operas at the time. That, and the romantic gossip.

Oh! I remember that performance. They're selling props from Hannibal. It was a strange opera, but a good enough starting point. Listen closely friend, for what I tell you… it truly happened just this way.

It all began with an Ingénue named Kori Anders… and it will all end with a ring.


	2. The Opera Populaire

_**Chapter 1: The Opera Populaire**_

Amaze at the difference the candlelight makes on the building. The life and power of the breathing lights allow the world to see a different sight. And oh, but it creaks with the wind, and that's nothing but expected, so we'll follow the beams of light and settle on the stage where I believe the story goes that many a cast would envy such lavish spectacles.

An elephant, a centerpiece in this opera, is wheeled forward as the chorus sings a rousing song of victory. Hannibal, atop the elephant, sits as an imposing figure who had intimidated many a buffet in his time.

But more important than that was his beloved, who I could safely say everyone could hear over the ruckus of any botched aria. Her voice warbled like a warbler after a couple rounds and it shrieked the high notes like a monkey and bellowed the low notes like a bassoon that desperately needed repairs. It was, in other words, little surprise that La Gatita, or the Kitten if you'd prefer, was a world-wide opera sensation.

The rehearsal was going along splendidly, much to the satisfaction of a one Opera House Owner, Madame Hive, who was currently showing an older gentleman and a young man around the place. "This is, ah, yes, Madame La Gatita. I'm sure you've heard much about her, Messieurs."

"Oh, very much," said the older one. He was built like a jackal, and spoke with a faint British accent. 'Likely a rich industrialist from across the water,' concluded the watching skeleton section – perhaps I need explain.

I had dubbed them the Skeletons after how ghastly thin the dancers must appear in a good light. Why, perhaps it's the style of the day, but the dancers, so cute and dainty, living as if their parents had sent them to a private tutor to prepare them for a life of luxury. I'm sure not a one of them is not better off because of the added effort in removing all nutrition from their body.

But, back at hand, these skeletal wrecks of girls stared upon the younger man. A handsome young man except for the shade of color of his skin. He blushed, half imagined it to be purple to match his bizarre complexion and looked away.

Perhaps I should introduce these two strange people. Sebastian is Sebastian Blood, who was indeed a rich industrialist from England. Particularly successful in a small business creating a particularly popular coat, he eventually turned away from the rustic beginnings – such as they were in those days – of the ever expanding factory – factories now – to more higher callings for a man of means. A long-time admirer of France, he took the opportunity of buying the Opera House as the chance of a lifetime. And he took it.

But, being a cunning man, he knew very well that he couldn't leave such a business without the aid of a friend of his who had a son, now seventeen, who was a budding musician and was living in Paris at the same time. He approached them, and with their permission, he asked the boy, Garfield, if he would be interested. Young Mr. Logan agreed eagerly, most likely because of the skeleton gallery I mentioned earlier, and from my experiences with the man, he was perhaps the most understanding of the plight of the many denizens of the opera house, seen and unseen.

So, these two, businessman and apprentice, were not touring the opera. The old lady who had owned the place after her husband's unfortunate demise was highly cooperative and almost eager, too eager, to sell. Blood named his price at a startling low price that they did not in fact reveal to me. But if they had been allowed to hear of the tales that the little girls whispered to each other behind the scenes.

The dancers had been whispering for weeks about why the old lady had finally decided to retire. Her husband had left a rather large retainer for her, and she could have comfortably lived for the rest of her days, but she had stayed on for the last ten years, without a word of complaint.

"She's selling because of the ghost," the pale-faced girl they called La Jinx. "I know it." A smaller girl, with long blond hair and a pushed-up nose snorted angrily. "You know it too, Tara."

Tara Markov was said to be a princess, but that wasn't to be believed. Mere poppycock, nothing more. There is no evidence to support the claims that the King of Markovia ever had an illegitimate child and it seems that many forget that's where the story seems to end.

I am confident in my research. It was exhaustive. She was in fact under the care of an older girl, who I believe she roomed with. Her job in the Opera House was to teach dance. For her age – she was either 19 or 20, but I am not sure because it isn't right to ask a girl for her age – she was most efficient at it. Her dark eyes and pale complexion had the girls whispering at the same time.

La Jinx again jested, "Perhaps the Demoness scared her off."

"Madame Raven?" Tara whispered. "No, I do not believe so. I would have noticed, I believe."

"You would have, could have, didn't."

"So cruel!" Tara sighed.

"But truthful!" said the pale and strange girl. "The Demoness, she's everywhere."

"I don't believe it's Madame Raven," Tara said softly, but with growing determination. "I believe it was the ghost!" This caused the entire room to break into a large squabble. Girls tittered about the stories old Mumbeux had told them.

"I heard he has a face like a skull!" one of the younger girls shrieked. "There's not a nose left!"

"Not a nose?" Tara scoffed. "I heard it wasn't missing, you just can't see it, it's so pale."

"You're both wrong!" Another laughed at their folly, and gestured wildly about her face as if wafting flames that did not exist. "Instead of a normal face, his face is on fire, burning bright. The rat catcher said so."

"You believe this poppy-cock?" la Jinx scoffed. "There is no Phantom of the Opera!" This brought a deadly silence to the room and no one dared even cough lest they be mistaken for la Jinx. Finally, one dared to speak up.

"You, you should not say such things!"

Superstition ruled the Opera House, and of all of them, the Opera Ghost, their "Fantome" is most revered. His wrath was unparalleled. Should he overhear someone speak ill of him, he would swoop in from the shadows, and with his face, a skull-like herald of doom.

x x x x x x x

Perhaps I should tell you a story that took place the week before the visit by Sebastian Blood. It's a strange tale that features prominently many of the patrons of the Opera House gathering for a gala dinner. La Gatita had been such a rousing success that they were celebrating her apparent triumph the following night.

She had left, herself, but the rest of the assembly were talking about business. The Madame Hive was quiet during the proceedings, as her mind had already been decided as to the course of her actions, but one of the guests, who had occupied a seat on the side, unnoticed until he made a strange laugh.

Why he had been unnoticed was quite confusing. Gaunt and imposing, he had at once appeared as if from a waking nightmare, skeletal, and his face had, they said, lacked a nose. The evening suit he wore hung off him almost sickeningly. Those who sat next to him would agree with the assessment that there was, likely, a nose there, but it was such that it appeared to be nothing at all.

And I imagine he smiled a very dry smile as the guests roused from their seats by the sudden intrusion. "I merely wished to say that I wish the Madame well in her future endeavors," said this strange guest. "I'm sure she has informed you of her plans."

"I had not," the Madame Hive said.

"I'm sorry, then," the stranger said. "I have spoiled the surprise twist to your charming little performance. And such a gala, Madame, fitting. Though La Gatita is, as always, an unequaled bore."

In her tired state, the Madame did not dare argue with the strange guest, but those around had begun to whisper to each other. Who was this strange gentleman and how did he know the Madame?

One dared speak, a gentleman, Comte de Malchior, and he looked quite angry at the intrusion by the uncouth speaker. "Where have you come from and how dare you disturb a private dinner such as this!"

"Oh, yes," coughed the figure, "How dare I. I dare, my friend, because I am superior to you." It was all he said, and Malchior's rants went on longer. I believe some said that he went on for ten minutes, completely making a fool of himself in front of the assembled court, because as he finished, the mysterious man had vanished _just as soon as he had appeared._

The Madame was not perturbed. "He comes and he goes," she was said to have told an assistant. "One minute there, the next minute gone. He's most incredible, like that. I do not believe in ghosts, but this once, just this once, I will make an exception."

The words la Jinx had spoken that inspired such furor from the assembled girls did have some merit, by all appearances. There was a carriage accident a few days later where the Comte de Malchior received a grievous head trauma with a rather thick book of occult practices that a fellow traveler had been carrying with him. Some say that the horses had been spooked by a man dressed in black and white that moved across the street like a flash of lightning.

The Ghost was vengeful.

x x x x x x x

He was a vitriolic defender of common sense and taste in the decadent atmosphere, and his presence nagged at the conscious of the girls as they strutted about in practicing a grand dance sequence celebrating the warrior Hannibal's great victory.

"Perhaps La Gatita will honor us with a performance?" Blood asked. The blonde prima donna beamed at the opportunity and her breast swelled with expectation of the great outpouring of gratitude she would receive.

I'm not particularly sure, but I believe it was the aria – oh, my memory goes so quickly! Perhaps if I hum a few bars you'll remember. "Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye."

The Phantom was vengeful. Particularly when forced to endure something that offended his taste so, and the Madame Hive knew well that he had no love for the Kitten, though no one knew how or why she knew.

He would not tolerate disbelief. La Jinx may have scoffed at the childish behavior of Mademoiselle Markov, but perhaps they had merited it. For at the rehearsal, as La Gatita had begun to warble an aria, the set began to fall apart and rip and tear. A sandbag fell nearly behind la Jinx.

It had been the final straw for La Gatita.

"That is it! I will not continue!"

"Madame, please," Madame Hive said, testily, "It was merely an accident. Is that not so, Mumbeux?"

"Yes, an accident. Old decayed rope. It happens," Mumbeux said from above the stage. The older man rushed about suspiciously, and Blood didn't seem entirely trusting towards him.

"These things, they do happen." Sebastian and Garfield seemed satisfied by this response, but the younger's ears were perked at the whispering among the dancers, particularly a strangely vibrant young girl suddenly very pale, and a thin blonde girl.

"It's the ghost!" they seemed to cry.

"Yes, well, until these things stop happening," La Gatita cried, "This thing does not happen!" She stormed out, followed by an entourage that hovered protectively around them, including the Hannibal from before.

Sebastian Blood was needlessly perplexed and confounded. A night before a gala event and the star had left the stage in a huff. Perhaps it was the way of the Prima Donna, always knowing that the owners would come crawling on hand and knees and demanding that she let them return.

Well, they'd see. "Can anyone else sing this part?" he asked. The girls seemed to draw back, except for one. Tara Markov.

"Let Kori Anders sing it, Monsieur," she said defiantly.

"Yes," said a voice from the audience. A man they had not seen before was sitting there, watching the rehearsal in the robes of a man from Persia. His face was covered by a half mask that went over his face and the most ghastly glow emerged from beneath it. "Let her sing for you. I have heard that she has been well taught."

The girl emerged quietly at first. The paleness of her skin was caused by shock at the horrible racket that accident earlier had created. Her bright red hair and honest green eyes looked at her audience of businessmen and women, and a strange Persian who she had not seen before.

And she opened her mouth to sing.

Of course, everyone knows the rest. It is, how they say in England, history. Oh? You say you are unfamiliar with the debut of the wonderful soprano Kori Anders? Such a pity! Her debut was a triumph. Not a single note out of place, and the encore performance from Romeo and Juliet left the crowd in tears, absolute tears from the sheer passion.

The discovery of the century! That's what they had declared her. I, of course being a man of taste and sophistication, decided to abstain from such pedestrian praises. I called it the greatest triumph ever afforded an understudy. Especially one for someone as self-centered as the Kitten.

So, in the time it took for twilight to give way to dusk, Kori Anders had gone from young and unsure of herself to the biggest face in the Opera World. Such a thing! Such a wonderful, wonderful thing.

But success brings many demons, my friend, and these two were disguised well.

x x x x x x x

Mlle. Anders has a rather interesting past. It's shrouded much in mystery due to the demise of her dear, dear beloved father before her arrival in the Opera Populaire as a dancer and a chorus girl. Much of what I know I have learned from the memoirs of her guardians while she lived in Paris.

But I think most charming is the story of what happened while she was vacationing by the sea when she was a little girl. It had been a lovely holiday, and the girl and her father had been enjoying much time together, as the man loved his daughter very much, when in a sudden gale wind, her scarf out into the cold, cold sea.

Kori was in tears, and her father tried his best to comfort him, when from out from the crowds a young boy leapt into the sea, fully clothed, and swam and caught the scarf and brought it to the girl, with a smile and a sneeze.

But they couldn't leave the poor boy die of pnemeunia, so they took him along in his carriage and he listened to the father play his violin so softly and sadly, and looked at the strange girl who was so enraptured by the song.

This boy was the Vicomte de Chagny, Richard.

He was not born into the family, but to a poor family who had lost their patriarch at sea almost six months before his birth, leaving him alone with his ailing mother, who named the boy Richard just before she breathed her last.

Such was the unfortunate tale of Richard, but it would not end there. For fortune smiled upon the little orphan boy, and the Comte de Chagny, sole inheritor of the Chagny estate, took pity on the boy and took him in.

Raised in fineries, Richard never became miserly, but became a compassionate young man who enjoyed music and dancing. He was a popular young bachelor who had many a lady hanging on his every word, but the bashful child! He never noticed.

I'm envious, I apologize.

He had taken the opera in for the evening and, much to his surprise, saw that the girl who had taken the place of La Gatita was, in fact, Kori Anders! "Can it be?" he asked, "Kori! Bravo! Bravo!"

She was really not a bit the girl that once he knew, now more developed and pretty. But she was still as he remembered -- an image of untarnished purity. Her dress was sparkling like white lightning and her hair was tied up in elegant curls that feel on her face like the licks of the flames.

He could hardly believe his good fortune as he descended the grand staircase in the main foyer, passing around the nobs who hobnobbed their way through the evening. It was, as he came to the people he was searching for, very fortunate, as they were speaking with his guardian, the Comte de Chagny.

"Monsieur Blood tells me that a familiar face had her big gala premier tonight, Richard," he said, immediately upon noticing him. "Have a drink. Mlle. Kori Anders. Why, that's a name I haven't heard in years. Richard was quite taken with the young girl."

"I wouldn't say that. I was hardly 13."

"Hardly 13, and madly in love," his guardian joked. "Oh, Monsieur le Mayor, just the man I wanted to see!" He danced around and began speaking with the mayor, leaving Richard with the beaming face of Monsieur Blood and his young assistant, Monsieur Logan.

"Monsieur Richard le Vicomte de Chagny! A pleasure!" Blood said. Garfield was much less open with his greeting, but they seemed eager to have his patronage to the opera house. "So, you and the chorus girl were childhood friends."

"Yes," Richard said, awkwardly. His guardian had set him up for this, he had thought, and decided to play along. "Dreadfully long ago."

"Yes, it must be so difficult to see a friend so close and yet, so very far," M. Blood continued. Messieurs le Directors were most eager to taunt him with the fruit of a rare meeting with the girl, especially since the dressing rooms were out of bounds to the patrons. Richard decided to continue hanging the cheese for the mice to try and climb to.

"Oh, so far, it seemed at the time. Yet it was close. Perhaps Box Five would have been closer."

"Box Five, oh yes." Seemingly as if on cue, there was a sound as if someone had fallen down the top step and landed in a very loud heap on the ground. A cry of pain and a gasp of disbelief as the man who had been occupying the seat found himself with a broken leg at the bottom of the floor.

Blood and Logan ran, dashing through, while Richard stood, glass in hand, monitoring the events and taking a careful drink to keep himself from seeming suspicious. So crowded, one could be forgiven for wishing to stay out of the way of the ruckus, and after all, he had a captive audience with Messieurs Blood and Logan. He could play this out. Still, he had walked down those stairs himself, how could someone fall. It wasn't as if they could run.

This was ponderous to Richard, who vowed to test it at a later date. But business, for now, could take a back seat to pleasure, especially when meeting an old friend would being a welcome respite from the past week.

"Oh, oh Monsieur!" Blood could be heard saying over the din. "I'm so sorry, I will have the man who cleaned these stairs reprimanded immediately!"

Richard mused, wondering how that could fix the matter any. I had stumbled upon Richard's secret in an amusing fashion that plays into this story. But it nagged slightly on his conscious at this point. He had been trained by an expert to detect even the slightest mistake in speech and to find every little detail in a mystery that could go unsolved.

Of course, he kept that behind a vapid smile of a gentleman fop. It served him well, and no one was guarded against his kindly smile and comforting suggestion that "You can tell me everything."

And he would let them tell him everything and let justice be swift as on the wings of the robin, coming with the warm winds of spring to thaw deceit's winter.

x x x x x x x

When at last Monsieur Blood had returned, Richard had convinced him to allow him to speak with Mademoiselle Anders in her dressing room and he was escorted past the dancing girls, practicing ballet under the cool and dangerous eye of a woman dressed in dark blues and shades of anger in her hair. Perhaps she was a gypsy, to explain her exotic appearance, but her skin was shades too fair for that. Instead, she appeared to be French thoroughly, and no one could take that away from her as her nose looked down at them.

"What is he doing back here!" she demanded, when they passed her. "The Ghost will be most displeased in your actions!"

"The Ghost?" Richard asked, curious. However, his interrogation was cut off by a wave of the hand from Monsieur Logan.

"She's a bit unsettled," he warned him, aside, and turned to the Madame Dance Instructor. "Madame Raven, perhaps you should watch your tongue. This is Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny!"

"The Vicomte, the Mayor, the King, or God Himself would displease him if he saw him wandering upon his stage!" Raven said with an accusing finger. "You would bring disaster on us all."

Richard did not let it pass his attention that the way she spoke was as in a reprimanding whisper, of a mother in public telling her selfish child to stop its misbehavior without drawing attention to her. She was truly afraid of this Ghost. Whoever it was, and why, he would be most interested in learning, but again, the respite was most definitely foremost in his mind, and he requested the messieurs to lead him forward, ignoring the warnings of the woman.

When they approached the dressing room, the owners took their leave, offering wishes of good luck, and prayers for much patronage, and allowed him to knock upon the door himself. And as he did, he awaited a response that never came.

"Mademoiselle?" he asked, through the closed door. "Please, would you let me in?"

He noticed a pair of eyes watching him from behind a corner, and he leaned back to see who was watching him. Strands of blonde hair draped down to the ground, and a dancer lay curled, eyes closed in the prayer that if she cannot see him, he cannot see her.

He laughed comfortingly. Perhaps the talk of a ghost had shaken him somewhat. Though, certainly, there could be a ghost in this place, without a doubt. It looked older than the front. There was less care to make it look as modern and glamorous as the day it was constructed. Instead, it had fallen pray to repairs and haphazard decoration. There was a homey feel, and it just added to the sense that something was wrong back behind the opera.

He knocked again, "Please, Mademoiselle, I am an admirer of yours who wishes to give you congratulations on a fine performance."

He leaned his ear against the door, and could hear a voice as crimson as silk and as warm as thunder declare, "What an ignorant fool, this slave of fashion. Grasping at my triumph! What do you bring to your door, girl?"

"Oh, you are so cruel," the voice said, a moaning, incompetent voice that he immediately identified as Kori's. It felt strained and worried, and at all unable to relate the feelings of despair she was subjected to. "How can you say that, when I sing only for you!"

"Ah," said the voice, now as inviting as night, "Then no emperor has received a gift so fine, so perfectly crafted." Richard's spine was shivering as the tone became perfect and romantic as velvet and satin.

"My dear," it said, "The angels themselves wept tonight."


	3. The Mysterious Angel of Music

_**Chapter 2: The Mysterious Angel of Music**_

Kori Anders was raised by a small farmer in Scandinavia who worked the earth during the week and sang and played the violin during the weekend. He was a meager man who had no wife alive to bear him a child. When he found the abandoned child at his doorstep, he took her in with as much love as any father could give and began to shower her with affection.

When the girl turned six, he sold his small patch of land and traveled seeking fame and fortune in the big world. Taking only his violin and his daughter, the only two things in the world of any value to him. The little girl loved music just as much as her dear father, and Anders and his little girl Kori would travel through-out the land and play their music and the festivals they passed along the way.

Kori was a girl who learned the musical alphabet before she learned to read, and music was in her veins. Her strange, alien voice echoed beautiful, wonderful notes from its very depths. Many would come and see this fiddler and his amazing young soprano. Relishing in the triumph, Kori would go day to day smiling and laughing.

They had sought fortune and found poverty, and yet still they were happy to have their music and their love. No girl could have a more loving father. And while they traveled again to fair to fair, trading their wonderful songs, they came across a professor of some repute who found in them a primal and wonderful music that he felt demanded care and attention to allow growth. Anders was the first violinist to him, and his daughter the makings of a great musician should her education be attended to.

So they went with this Professor Firjit to Gothenburg and the education began, and both her wit and her beauty grew exponentially. No longer a cute little girl, Kori Anders had the markings of a beautiful woman. It was with this kindly professor that they would finally find themselves transported to the beautiful French cities. It was here that the health of Monsieur Anders began to deteriorate.

But then came that fateful vacation when a young boy would fetch her scarf, and Monsieur Anders gained another patron of his art, as he played his guitar distantly and sang a song.

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing," he would say, "Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes, or of riddles or socks or of chocolates.'

"No, what I love best, Lotte said, was when I was asleep in my bed and the angel of music would sing songs in my head."

This song would reverberate most with the young girl who would become the dazzling soprano at the opera house that night that so spellbound the now adult Vicomte de Chagny with her powerful voice.

And brought to the attention Tara Markov's curiosity. "You were wonderful tonight, Kori! How can it be? But a week ago your singing was a crock, and now it was as beautiful as ever."

Tara, sweet Tara knew naught of the repercussions of Monsieur Anders' slow death. His health had failed so quickly and he faded like the last chords of an opera, slowly and with painful consequence. "My Father once spoke of an angel," began Kori, suddenly. The start caused Tara to jump. "I, I always believed he would come and now he has finally arrived!"

"Kori! You're speaking so strangely," Tara said, hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, "Surely, you don't mean the story your father once told. It's a fairy-tale, nothing more."

"But my father promised me," Kori said, so forcefully that Tara became meek and tiny in front of her. "He promised me that he would come and now, now I have heard him. He sings to me as I fall asleep and he has taught me so much. Oh, and his voice!"

She described to Tara a voice that mere words could hardly contain. There was at first a velvet and dark quality that formed its base, like the vague stitching around a doll. It hid beneath it tender cotton lovingness. And around this darkness there were small highlights of violet on its velvet flesh. It was clothed in ostentatious gold, but lined with perfect silver, untouched.

And yet, she had never seen once the face of the Angel of Music. Never once did it dare show itself, but that was by a matter of course. "No one sees the Angel, but he is heard to those who are meant to hear him."

Tara, in her fright, meekly bowed her head, and again warned Kori, "Such things are not meant to be."

"My father promised me that when he came to Heaven that he would send the Angel of Music, and now his promise has been fulfilled. That is all I need know! What else is there to say?"

"Nothing," Tara said, "I, I must go. Madame the Demoness will yell if I am late for practice."

"Go along, little Tara," spoke Kori, vaguely, as she began to comb her hair in the full-length mirror. That mirror spooked Tara, it seemed ready to consume whoever looked at it. And yet Kori stood before it with no hesitation. She felt strangely as if she were intruding and excused herself without another word.

She saw someone turn the hall and she ducked behind it, hurrying to conceal that she had been anywhere but where she should have been. It was the owners and the Vicomte, she saw, and she hid, wondering what such a wealthy patron could want with Kori Anders!

And yet he gained no admittance into the room. It was locked, and he seemed almost frightened as he leaned against the door and backed away. She wondered if he had noticed her, but cast the thought from her mind. He merely ran the opposite way he came, as if he had seen a ghost.

But of course!

The Opera Ghost!

She ran forward, after him. But she was stopped by the looming presence of La Demoness. "Madame Raven!" Tara said, attempting to minimize the damage, "I was in such a hurry to practice that I did not see you there."

"Practice is over, Mademoiselle. You should be going home. I will speak to you about your punishment when I return."

"You are not coming?"

"There is a snoop," she said.

"A snoop? I should stay and help!"

"No," Raven said, coldly, "I will do this alone."

"What if it's the Ghost!"

"Do not believe those stupid stories Mumbeux has told you. There is no Phantom of the Opera. He is merely a myth that he tells to scare young, gullible girls." She sniffed her nose indignantly and took that young girl's hand. "I will take you to the door, and you will go home. I will return soon."

"And if you do not?"

"Keep waiting."

"Very well, Madame Raven," she said and took to following her. She felt there was a creaking of the floorboards, but instead, if seemed to come from beneath even that. A creaking like a flurry of rats beneath the floorboards.

What a sight that would be!

The rat-catcher could work for years there. And yet, he would never find that nest. The many, many floors beneath the ground, all dark and mysterious, each with their own, strange myth populating them, it would take years and far more money than a man such as I could afford to find them all and scurry them away.

But that's not the point of the Opera. The Opera is a place to let your guard down in the absolute darkness of a strange place with strange people. The ghosts of the opera house are just as important as the actors.

Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny however was not a believer of ghosts. But he was a believer in crimes and criminals. He swore to deal with that problem in his own way, many years ago when the Comte de Chagny took him in. And so he removed his evening wear and took on more suiting dress.

In Japan they had Ninja, in Paris, we had Le Merle. Le Merle was the sidekick of Le Batte. Le Batte et Le Merle. Such were the tales back then. Many a young lady would remember a handsome, dashing figure in a mask and a dark, skin-tight outfit with the symbol of a bird emblazoned on it, saving them from such predators.

But tonight, le Merle flew alone. With a twist of grace, he landed on the ground besides the Opera House and began to explore. "The Sewers, perhaps?" He was about to descend into the sewers when he heard the sound of a door opening in the back alley. From that door emerged a girl, no more than fifteen, who looked nervous to walk these cold dark streets alone.

Paris at night is a different beast than Paris in the evening. When the City of Lights lets its lights burn out, it becomes so dark and foreboding. Romance gives way to fear and the beautiful streets become ugly and grisly pathways to one's demise.

One does not want to wander Paris at night alone, and le Merle was a gentleman first and foremost. He took to the shadows and followed her as she walked to her apartment. She shivered in the cool air, and entered the doorway to her building. He descended then, and stepped out into the light.

"Ma'am?" he asked, gruffly.

"Who, who are you?" she asked, hesitantly. She felt frightened yet at the same time exhilarated at the sight of this mysterious masked man. Masks ignite something in the opera people's blood. Inexplicable how it can replace their image of a man's face. "Monsieur, have you been watching me this whole time?"

"These are streets that the less kindly walk. But I was wondering if you could help me. Kori Anders, are you familiar with her?"

"Is that why you followed me?" she asked, "To ask about Kori Anders?"

"Mademoiselle, your safety was my first concern," she was reputed to have heard. He dashingly bowed, and then said, "I merely wish to protect her from something that I fear may be lurking in the shadows."

"The Angel!" He showed a degree of confusion to her response, so he elaborated, "The Angel of Music, she said that she heard an Angel of Music."

"The Angel of Music," he murmured. "I, I am familiar with that story. Tell me, did she tell you anything else?"

"Monsieur, how do you know of such a story? I had met Monsieur Anders only once before he passed away and he told me that it was a story he told Kori when she was but a little girl."

"Shouldn't your question be 'How does this stranger in her room know this story?'"

"For all I know," she retorted, "You could be that man. Now, monsieur, tell me how you know!"

"My secret identity has met Monsieur Anders once, a long time ago. He would not have remembered me." He turned to leave, with a flourish of the cape he wore along his back. "I must go now," he said, "If you have any information that would help me, please let me know before I leave."

"Perhaps you should speak to Miss Anders where she lives," Tara said, hesitantly. "I have the address if you want it."

"That would be helpful, but perhaps you could leave a message for her, for me. Do you have anything I might write with?"

"Please, come inside," Tara said, quietly.

x x x x x x x

The Opera House's famed snoop had found himself cornered by the woman that they called the Demoness! The woman was known as the Demoness not for her temper, which was quiet and slow to rise, but for her strange eyes that sometimes seemed to glow red in the candlelight of the backstage.

The Snoop was a man that would be familiar to any resident of the Opera House, as he wore the robes of Persia. The Persian looked at her from behind the cool white mask that covered the left side of his face. He appeared to be smoking. The woman responded, coolly, "Monsieur, could you please stop smoking."

He gave her a look that spoke volumes. "I can't."

He was a large man, for certain he stood at least six feet tall. His skin was darker than any Raven had seen, perhaps he was a Moor who had been raised in Persia. He frowned with conviction, looking very angry with the interruption. "Perhaps you can explain," Raven said, "Why you are snooping around here?"

"I am searching for an old friend. He knows me well."

"Really," Raven asked. "Then tell me, Monsieur, why are you snooping around after we have all gone home?"

"Have you seen Mademoiselle Kori Anders leave?"

Raven's eyes widened. "I, I had not."

"Strange," the Persian said, "No one else has, either."

Raven hurried to the dressing rooms, and searched Miss Anders private dressing room's door for a key. She jiggled the handle and tried to open it, but the door would not budge. It was locked from indoors.

"It is locked!" Raven declared, putting her hands to the door in frustration. "If this is some manner of trick, I swear I will –" but when she turned around there was no one standing there. The faint scent of steam lingered in the air.

x x x x x x x

The next day, the owners had found themselves staring at strange notes placed on their desks. Sebastian opened his in a flurry and found himself staring face to face with writing that was red and crooked, as if it had been written by an unsteady hand.

_Dear Monsieur Blood,_

_Charming gala._

_Anders, a triumph._

_Chorus, needs waking._

_Dancing was lamentable._

I do not believe we will need to see Madame la Gatita in these circles again.

Signed at the bottom of the letter was, in a grand sweeping calligraphy, was the initials "O.G." and then it was torn off, on the back was written scribbling of music that Blood merely threw to the side, seeing the handwriting to be uncouth and obviously uneducated. "Garfield, tell me, did you receive a note?"

"Yes, I did," Garfield said, "I haven't opened it yet. Should I have?"

"Not yet, but let's see what it has to say." They tore open the envelope and removed the note. It was written in the exact same hand as the one Blood had received, and while he handed Garfield his note to look over, he looked over the note with a bit of apprehension as to what it said.

_Dear Monsieur Logan,_

_Just a brief reminder._

_My salary is overdue. Your predecessor had paid for the last month, however now that the month is approaching its close, it's past due for my payments. That is 240,000 Fr., or precisely 233,424 Fr. 70 c., to be correct._

_I also wish to post a rather harsh reminder that Box 5 is to remain empty. I do not imagine that Madame Hive left without alerting to you that this box is my own private box, and that I do not enjoy sharing the seat with such uncouth gentry that has the resources to afford such a luxury._

_I trust that during this time of change and growth, you will find the time to maintain my wishes and if you wish to live the remainder of your time as managers of my Opera House, you would wisely adhere to these simple rules. Your generosity to charity cases such as le Jinx, Mademoiselle Markov, and La Gatita, all of whom are hardly worthy of such honors, leads me to believe you will bring your charity to your ever faithful servant._

_Faithfully yours,_

_O.G._

It was in that same dark calligraphy.

"I think we should be afraid of Madame Hive's sense of humor. She's quite the dangerous one," Sebastian laughed. He took a piece of stationary out and began to pen a note, "Perhaps we should invite her to the next gala. Oh, what was that? Il Muto, wasn't it? Indeed. Madame Hive would enjoy that show, I think," Monsieur Blood said.

"I believe we have a problem," Garfield said. He unfolded a newspaper and on the front page, "'Mystery of Soprano's Flight.'"

"La Gatita? Nonsense!"

"No, not nonsense," Garfield said. "It's not La Gatita, either. It's Mademoiselle Anders. She's gone. No one has seen her since last night. The police are investigating, but they're finding nothing."

"So, you're expecting me to believe that Mademoiselle Anders is gone?"

"I don't expect you to believe it," Logan answered, "But that's beyond the point. Sir, I'm worried. This news, it's horrible."

"No, it's not! Half our cast is gone, but the seats are filled. In fact, the only seat not yet sold is Box 5. Peculiar, wouldn't you say? Arrange for the Box to be made up for Madame Hive, would you?"

"Sir, I just have a bad feeling about this. Something's not right here."

"Of course not! That's the beauty of Opera!"

"No, Sir," Logan responded. "Madame Raven had just told me that there was someone snooping around backstage, and then Mademoiselle Tara told me that some masked man had approached her about the girl."

"Anders, Anders, Anders," Blood said, angrily, "All we've heard since we've come here is Anders!"

"Where is she!" The room was turned asunder by the explosive arrival of the Vicomte de Chagny. He was said to have appeared by throwing the door open with the right timing. It was very dramatic and I felt compelled to include it in a dramatic fashion.

"Who? Miss Anders?"

"Yes, where is she?" he asked, waving a note around like a sword. "I received a letter that makes me very concerned. Did you write this note?"

"And what are we supposed to have wrote?" Sebastian said, realizing he had put the tense wrong, he silently cursed, and added, "Written. Pardon me, but French isn't my first language."

"Then you did not write this note?"

"Allow me," Sebastian said, taking it upon himself to read each note personally and under amazing scrutiny.

_Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny_

_Do not search for your precious Mlle. Anders. She is under the care of the Angelof Music. Make no attempt to see her again or face consequences beyond your wildest nightmares._

_The Angel_

No time was spent on formalities. It was crude and even the calligraphic signature was missing, replaced with the disgustingly scratchy "Angel" signature. Monsieur Blood laughed. "He fancies himself an Angel now!"

"Who is this Angel?"

"He was calling himself O.G. before."

"O.G.?" Richard asked.

"Opera Ghost," Monsieur Blood answered, without taking a look away from the note. "It's like he's scribbling it in the dark. Just no line of sight. Pity," he laughed, "A man with that sense of humor could go far."

"Monsieur Blood," Richard said, "I don't like your tone."

"Pardon me," Blood said, clearing his throat, "Three notes. Fascinating. I wonder if he's part of the postal service!"

"You laugh," Richard said, "But that is a most distinct possibility."

They would be joined soon by a shrill whine as a man with a butterfly lapel escorted a younger woman in. The prodigy La Gatita struts. It's a sight to see. Her own belief in her ability has left her most incapable of walking. She struts every which way, no matter if she's angry, or happy, or sad. But in this case, she was outright furious. "Monsier le Vicomte de Chagny, I have heard of you!" she said, upon being introduced, "And I find your sense of humor very lacking!"

She looked as if she was about to devour the young gentleman. "What joke have I told? I've been nothing but serious today."

"This note!"

"A note!" chorused the room. La Gatita was obtuse but even she noticed the loud chorus of voices. "Let me see this note!" said Sebastian Blood, who received the note in quick order and he took it from her hand and began his scrutiny. It was in the same hand as all the rest, but if the note to Monsieur Richard le Vicomte de Chagny had been curt, then this was unbound and total loathsomeness writ from the pen to the page.

_La Gatita_

_Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered and I must say it has happened all too late in your less than stellar career_

_Kori Anders will be singing on your behalf tonight and every night until she deigns to retire which I pray will not be for a long time_

_Her genius will extinguish your lantern_

_Should you attempt to take her place I will be forced to take actions that I will be most regretful to implement_

It was not even signed, and no punctuation was even wasted on it. It came together to form a rather angry tone. The penmanship was even scratchier, as if it had been written on a flood of anger.

The anger which now presented itself in La Gatita's small, round face.

"Madame!" said Blood. Why they referred to her as Madame was always a mystery to me. I believe it deals with her prodigal rise to stardom, but to me, she was always a dull and boring young girl.

She was born in Spain to a small Spanish nobleman and a blonde haired French woman. Born and raised along the Pyrenees, she became a powerful singer in time, and with some lessons she became well-known.

It was when she was discovered that her range became her most valued guide. Through Othello and the Boheme, she was delightful as Maguerita in Faust, but her greatest triumph was in Romeo and Juliet.

Her rage at the girl was well-known. To be overshadowed in the performance that had made her famous by a little girl from nowhere whose voice was a crock until mysteriously that evening – that was what haunted the woman. And when she awoke to find a note of such vitriol awaiting her perusal, she had set to the Opera House immediately.

Her Carriage Driver responded to my ad for anyone knowing anything about the details contained within that month. She had speculated that it had been her fans all the way, but her father – the man with the lapel pin – had convinced her that it must have been the Vicomte.

I always found this amusing, as the Vicomte was handsome and charming and la Gatita had attempted to flirt her way into his favor many a time, but had been rebuffed at every move. Convincing her that he was to blame, it wasn't as hard as at first it seemed.

But now she was all in a huff, and without Madame la Gatita to headline, and Mademoiselle Anders vanished, the managers were confronted with the very real possibility of having no soprano for their big gala. And without a soprano the show just could not go on.

Blood brought his hand to La Gatita's and kissed it. "Madame La Gatita! It was not to our knowledge."

"Your precious patron has insulted me. I am sorry to say I'm forced to leave behind this petty little establishment. La Gatita will not stand for your rudeness! Good day, messieurs!"

"Madame!" Garfield said, seeing the panic in his older assistant's eye. "Look! A flying gorilla!"

Sebastian Blood could only groan audibly at the desperate measure that Garfield took. La Gatita looked at where he pointed. "I, I can't believe it worked," Sebastian's only response was. He swept in and put his arms around the girl. "Madame! We love you, your public loves you, and even Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny loves you! Your public, she needs you!"

"You would much rather have your precious Ingénue, Mademoiselle Anders?"

"No, the world wants you!"

Sebastian Blood convinced her that she was their true Prima Donna in a fashion that I'm not sure could easily be reproduced. It was a combination of his silver tongue, her air-filled head, and the sheer amount of egotism that the Opera can foster, especially in one such as La Gatita.

The celebration was cut short by the sudden interruption by Madame Raven and Mademoiselle Markov.

"Mademoiselle Anders has returned!"


	4. The Mysteries of Box 5

**_Chapter 3: The Mysteries of Box 5_**

The unseen genius of the Opera Populaire must have been laughing at the sight that would welcome any onlooker to the Opera House's offices that day. These people, all a fluster over the news of the Ingénue, Anders, and her subsequent return from the underworld, danced about in a strange choreography truly rare in modern spontaneous life.

"Did you send this note?"

"How did you hear? Where is she?"

"What about the show?"

(Monsieur Logan had been the one to notice this, as always the only one to truly care about the Opera. He was a large help in my investigation following the incident, leading me to the man who revealed much of the mystery of the Opera Ghost. However, his only response was a rather flustered and dark return by Sebastian. "What about the show? The ticket prices alone we could cancel the show and hop the next ship to America and live quite comfortably!")

"What about the girl?"

"Why must we all argue?"

"What is going on?"

"Who is sending these notes?"

They were all interrupted by the suddenly loud voice of Tara Markov, "Quiet! She is ill, and will see no visitors at this time. And Monsieur Blood, I must insist you take these notes seriously!"

"Why do you say that, girl?"

"For there is one last note," Madame Raven answered in a tone like controlled thunder or unchained tigers, whichever would suit the reader as less lethal. "Monsieur Blood, Monsieur Logan, this is merely the beginning, if you do not heed these warnings."

"I'll be the judge of this," Blood said, snatching the note nastily from Madame Raven's hand and opening it with a startling rip and removing the hastily scribbled note. It was again in this hard and untouched hand. "Ahem, now, allow me to read this to the congregation."

_Assembled Friends,_

_I have now sent you many notes of the most amiable nature I can muster, detailing how my Opera House shall be run. But as of this time, I have not received adequate response. This is your final, and most urgent warning._

_Kori Anders has returned to you, so that her career my resume and I am eager to see it progress. Your new production, Il Muto, a delightfully tongue-in-cheek number I have enjoyed on many occasions, suits her talents and her charm wonderfully. She will be a show-stopping Countess. But, let it be said that I am not heartless, I have cast, in my mind's eye, La Gatita as the page boy, a role best suiting her talents._

_Which is, to say, occupying space._

_I will be enjoying the performance from my normal seat in Box 5, which shall remain empty._

_Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination shall occur._

_I remain your faithful servant,_

_O.G._

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. The fluster became a roar, as La Gatita pounced on Richard, and began to tear his morning dress with the sheer fury that was contained. The Raven dodged to the side, and took in the anger and loathing with a rather contented smirk. Mademoiselle Markov cried helplessly about the repercussions, and the managers were unable to manage the incident that had suddenly broken loose in their office.

"I'm taking all bets!" Garfield called, loudly, in English. Those who understood him glared angrily in his direction. Except for a light-hearted, under-his-breath, chuckle from Blood. "Five to one on the Vicomte!"

"Mi Gatita, por favor!" her father cried.

"Why are you doing this?" Tara murmured. "We're facing imminent destruction, these forebodings only lead to disaster!"

"The angel sees, the angel hears, the angel knows." Madame Raven repeated quietly, ignored but for the Vicomte, who, despite the yelling of La Gatita in his ear could still respond.

"What is this angel?" he demanded to know.

"You sent this! It was you!" La Gatita screamed.

"Madame! Please!"

"Sebastian, what do we do?"

"Allow me to handle this!" Sebastian responded. "Madame! Do not attack him. It is him, but he will not succeed. No, I believe I have caught his ruse. Entwined in love's duet, she has gone and slept with our patron. But, Madame! I have told you once, I will tell you again, the lines, they are for you, the world wants you!"

"How dare you!" Vicomte de Changy cried.

"No, no!" Madame Raven whispered, "Don't do this."

"Portents," Tara murmured.

"You merely say that to appease me."

"N, no!" Gar said, "We truly need you, Madame."

"Your public cries out your name. Do you hear them?" Sebastian said, ribbing Garfield. Garfield began to make quiet beckoning calls from the supposed public while Sebastian spoke, "Signora! Sing for us an age old raporte. Light up the stage once more!"

I think it was at this time that they were silenced by the creaking of some ancient hydraulic achievement compacted into a muscle. The Persian stood, looming in the doorway, holding a note.

"Perhaps you should conduct business," he said, "In a more productive fashion." The smell of steam should waft into the nose of any standing in the presence of the Persian. Why would be revealing of the story, so I opt to keep it my little secret until much later. Instead, let it be understood that many mistook the steam for smoke and began to panic further.

Only Madame Raven and the Vicomte seemed unfazed, but Sebastian was the first to speak, "Who are you, precisely."

"A patron," was the only answer he received. "This note, it was left for you."

"Let me see it!" Sebastian said, taking it even more angrily than before. It was merely folded half-way, as if too rushed for finding an envelope. It was brief, no real mark, and I ponder if the Phantom sat about, reading it along with his adversary. "So it is to be war between us."

"Pardon?" Richard asked, "War?"

"He has seen, he has begun. Turn back, recant, apologize and pray, or prepare to feel his wrath."

"Foolish woman," Sebastian said. "Now, who is this that delivers this note?" The man was gone. Everyone looked from one to the other, unsure of how to truly respond. "That is most repugnant, smoking in a place of business. Do you French ever conduct yourselves properly?"

"I take offense to that," Richard said. "Don't you, Madame Raven?"

"Hardly. I am not French."

"Then where do you come from?" Richard asked, masking his suspicions under carefully wrapped good-natured boyish charm.

"That is none of your business. Now I must be gone, come along Tara. We have completed out task for the day. To practice, girl!"

"Yes, Madame," Tara said quietly. She looked desperately at the patron, but was taken away by a rough handed movement. I don't know exactly what it was she wished to say, but perhaps it was something related to Madame Raven. The Persian informed me that very few people knew her native land, but she had lived in France for as long as I can remember. I recall her working the boxes, as well, to earn spare change while the performances were on and she was not required to be teaching these skeletal messes how to dance.

Perhaps that was why she knew best the secrets of Box 5.

"I would like to see Box 5, if that is not too much a hassle."

"Pardon me, Monsieur le Vicomte," Blood said, "But our patrons are not allowed into the boxes outside of a performance. It is currently being prepared for the next performance."

"Which I of course shall be seeing."

"Ah, but we have already sent tickets to Madame Hive. I shall, of course, inform you, and if your curiosity gets the better of your judgment, if the seats become available. I am sure, however, Madame Hive did not go through such lengths to give up a seat she covets so."

Their note would be quickly replied to.

"I see," Richard would in the meanwhile tell them, "I will be away. There are other matters I must attend to."

X x X x X x X

As to the matter of Box 5. The note that they had sent was hastily replied by Madame Hive, who thanked them for the considerate offer, but regretfully declined due to the nature of the seats.

"Box 5," she had written, "Belongs to Monsieur Fantome. It is not my place to assume it." The superstitious tone of the note went against the very fiber of Sebastian's being. He would not rest until he discovered what was causing this horrible rash of bizarre accidents and prove once and for all that there was no ghost.

But he did not know completely the history of Box 5.

Madame Raven was kind enough to send me a report of her time taking care of Box 5, in which she had nothing but flattering things to say about the occupant of the box. He was, she said, a gentlemen through-and-through.

"He would always remember my birthday," she recalled, "And that was a kind thing for him to remember. He would leave me long-stemmed roses, how he procured them I would never know, because he was quite invisible to the naked eye."

This invisible patron, she went on to write, often requested small things. A glass of champagne, in particular, was a favorite of his. He had sophisticated taste and asked for only the finest vintages. He was always kind enough to leave her a tip when the performance had finished.

_And yet no one entered or left the box_.

Box 5, otherwise, was like any other box. It had perhaps the best view of the stage, but in particular it was notable that it ran against two pillars. These pillars framed the box.

Beautiful ornamentation, and the seats aside, there was little or no way for the person to enter or leave, except the door or by leaping from the box to the stage and vice versa. Needless to say, no one saw anyone do the latter.

Most peculiar is the note in Madame Raven's letter that pointedly marked the incident of the Phantom's lady friend. He had requested a footstool once, and his explanation was for his lady. A lady phantom.

She also explained that she had told the exact story to the detectives that they had called in to investigate these incidents, and only received askew looks. Moreso when she warned them that the Phantom would not approve. The Angel, she told them, would seek a swift retribution for the police's involvement.

Still, she refused to divulge much of what she truly knew about the Phantom. And she knew much more than she allowed herself to say.

One cannot help but be taken by the grandeur of the Opera House's main foyer, and here took place of one of the strangest incidents involving Box 5. Madame Raven barely covered this in her report, but the news on the incident was certainly quite a scandal. Monsieur C had enjoyed a quiet evening at the Opera on his own. He was a reputable man, keeping his nose to the ground and letting people ignore the later revealed more illegal activities of his shipping business. The Chinaman sat and watched the Opera until he began to notice voices.

They appeared to be coming from the box next to his. He called for assistance, and the lady – not Madame Raven that night as she had been busy keeping the girls in line on a particularly nerve-wracking opening night – and complained about his neighboring box. The lady agreed to check, but when she returned she said that the occupant ad no idea what is going on.

"I hear them! Tell him and his lady friend to keep their voices down."

The woman answered, "But Monsieur, there is only a gentleman in the next box. You must be hearing things."

Madame Raven was furious when she had heard of the sale of Box 5 – Madame Hive assured her that it had been a slip-up at the box office, and the help could do little to deny that the ticket indeed read Box 5.

And Box 5, it was reputed, was furious at its new occupant. The voice, which M. C was the only audience of, then whispered scandalous things in his ear, causing him to sweat, he described, like a hog in the oven. "Our little arm's dealer. Forgive my Argot for being so rusty, but it's I believe you're the one the escaped cons go to for their little toys. How entirely bourgeois. You believe yourself to be worthy of the Opera House because of your profit margin? Don't make me laugh."

I was not answered that he had any merit behind the accusations, but the slander – libel in my case if I weren't to include this disclaimer in my written report – had offended the man enough to rise from his seat and leave the box.

It was at this point that the Foyer's grand staircase becomes important to the story. You have seen it yourself, that sweeping stairway that splits apart halfway up, and then up to the balcony and the boxes.

M. C was heading down the staircase, and then he fell down the stairs with a grand ruckus. One of the attendants had witnessed it and said that the man had fallen forward, M. C corroborated that part of the story. He felt he had been pushed by some malicious child at the top of the stairs.

If Box 5 was the Phantom's seat, then it would be that our Phantom was a vindictive sort that quickly responded to any conceived offense with such swift and unseen justice that it was as if the touch of the ghost itself had descended for but an instance, felt but unseen. A chill descends on those who witness it.

X x X x X x X

Monsieur Logan was again always very in tune with the Opera House. He was a student, as mentioned earlier, of music at the University of Paris, and a quiet, intelligent, but often goofy and detached young man. His skin, green as it was, had been a reason for much his own insular nature, and perhaps why the Opera was so seductive to him. He could forget, with ease, the conflict he had among the religious backlash of Monsieur Charles Darwin's infamous book.

I would be bereft if I should mention my personal opinion of the theory, but it seems to have merit should this Beast Boy, as the papers had described him in England, was to be believed. His parents were scientists, Godless people if ever there were, and sent the boy to study privately in Paris following the media circus – forgive the pun – that had followed his revelation.

The boy, his parents explained, had contracted a strange disease during their visit to the Galapagos, to investigate Monsieur Darwin's findings. They were close friends of Darwin's, and had been eager to experience as he had, even at the cost of their young son, who had contracted a rare disease indigenous to animals in that region.

Perhaps through magic itself, they had conjured a serum that could counter-act the disease. They had, to the medical community, described it as finding the root link between all species. Such a notion!

They were laughed at. How could they not be laughed at? The entire concept was hardly accepted among scientists besides Darwin, and now they presumed to tell them that there was a root link between all species? It was ludicrous! But then…

I am not sure how to describe this occurrence, so I will state it simply. The laughter threatened to consume his parents, he wrote, so he attempted to prove they were right. A young boy, he understood their horror. The boy then did a wondrous thing, and transformed. He was no longer merely a boy, but a shape shifting changeling.

This hoax, an elaborate one, they had called it, lead to them being exiled in disgrace from the scientific community. The boy, however, became the center of attention to the superstitious English commoner. The papers had stories, pictures of M. Logan, and attempted to identify him as a kind of elf.

It was a return to the medieval sensibilities! Such a nation.

He had written to me many a time, and sent me copies of his memoirs – which I recommend you read as they are quite riveting – especially around the time of his managing the Opera House. He is now retired, and M. Blood is retired from life itself, so he was truly my only link to the day-to-day business of the opera house during this period of time.

However, he was more open to the police, allowing them to come into the Opera House and investigate Box 5. The incident with M. C was before his time, and they were not allowed in – and why should they be? What possible cause could voices in a crazy man's head give?

But he, unlike Madame Hive, led the detective to the box, personally, to investigate. And they found nothing – instead, it was more interesting that they detected the scent of steam around the area. A scent that was often associated with the strange Persian man. He had decided not to mention this to Sebastian, and instead let it linger as an unanswered question to the inspector.

Though nothing was found, he would still linger over the detail, and belabored in detail how he had "lost sleep, certain that something had been forgotten, something had been overlooked." It was at this time that he had sent a wire to M. Vicomte de Changy, inviting him to investigate the Box, privately, and without the knowledge of M. Blood. "I would keep him occupied, I told him, and continued that he would not be held responsible for anything should it appear to be in order."

He received a gracious return. "He wrote," Logan recalled, "'I am eager to lend my assistance in this manner. I am still greatly grieved over the incident yesterday involving the outrageous rumors that I was behind those strange notes. M. Blood, I understand, was merely attempting to calm Madame La Gatita; however, I would like to clear myself outright of any guilt.' I was," Logan continued, "Greatly surprised that such a man would admit to being afraid of behind held responsible."

M. Logan was not aware, of course, of the nocturnal investigation already afforded to le Merle, which was swift and yet found nothing of any note. Whoever had been using this seat had done so in such a way to mask his presence.

Though, admittedly, the blueprints of the Opera House were contained, it was commonly known that the architect could devise small traps inside the building much like the trap door on a stage, allowing someone to move unseen from a balcony to the stage to the basement to the sub-basements – most of which had not been charted. Of course, this was partially because of the darkness.

But it was also because of the large body of water that had been found below the Opera House.

So, concluded Richard, that perhaps some of the most senior residents would know a bit about the Opera House.

Logan was also confused by the following note. "However," Richard had remarked, "I will be away from Paris on an impromptu visit to an old friend's grave to pay my respects. I will inform you of my return as it presently as becomes it."

This is a most peculiar turn of events for one who does not know Richard. The visit was not one to his own convenience, but out of sheer necessity.

For, you understand, he had gone, following the incident in the office, to see Mademoiselle Anders at her home – the address having been afforded him by Mademoiselle Markov. He was greeted at the door not by Mlle. Anders as he had hoped, but a kindly old lady that he recognized as Mme. Virjit, a kindly old soul who had been quite taken by the young suitor to Mlle. Anders, and informed him that she was not in fact at home at this time.

She had, reportedly, left immediately on a train to that fateful summer retreat that had done her much for her father's health, and in turn was where he had been buried. Richard was quick to follow.

He left on the train the following morning.


End file.
